Reuniting is Such Bitter Happiness
by AiredaleLady
Summary: While attending separate conventions at the same hotel, Fred & Velma unexpectedly run into eachother. But after such a bitter break up, is either one ready to "forgive and forget" just yet?
1. Preface

PREFACE

This is the fourth in a series of stories inspired by the "Scooby-Doo" live-action film. As much as I enjoyed the movie, (I saw it seven times in the theater and countless times on video), from a writer's point of view, it didn't pass muster. There were just too many unresolved loose ends, both in terms of plot and characterization; but it was these loose ends that provided the impetus for this series of fan fics. 

Particularly odd was why Fred and Daphne acted so coldly towards each other, while Fred and Velma radiated a chemistry that was never present in the original cartoon. Take for instance, the initial reunion scene at the airport; Fred and Velma seem to harbor no rancor towards each other, but Daphne refuses to speak to either of them. From a plot point-of-view, this aspect of the story is inconsistent, after all, wasn't Velma angry with Fred for his continuously upstaging her? 

Although the deleted scenes featured on the DVD and VHS versions offer some insight on this question, they do not provide a definitive answer to it. Other than what is shown in the ultimately deleted flashback scenes, what exactly went on during the two-year hiatus of Mystery Inc. is as mysterious to the viewer as the strange demons haunting Spooky Island. This inconsistency and lack of answers led me to ponder the question what exactly happened between Fred and Velma to dispel the initial ill will between them, which is what you will find when you read this story. 

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: 

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Scooby-Doo and all related characters and elements are trademarks of Hanna-Barbera and/or Warner Bros. Inc. **This work contains elements taken directly from the screenplay "Scooby-Doo" (2002) directed by Raja Gosnell and written by James Gunn. All rights retained by the original copyright holders**. This is an amateur, not-for-profit work and is not intended to infringe upon the rights of the original copyright holders. For full credits, click here. 

Continue to the story


	2. Reuniting is Such Bitter Happiness

Reuniting is Such Bitter Happiness

By Mlle. Dinkley

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Disclaimer: Scooby-Doo and all related characters and elements are trademarks of Hanna-Barbera and/or Warner Bros. Inc. This work contains elements taken directly from the screenplay "Scooby-Doo" (2002) directed by Raja Gosnell and written by James Gunn. All rights retained by the original copyright holders. This is an amateur, not-for-profit work and is not intended to infringe upon the rights of the original copyright holders. For full credits, click here. 

A circle of police cruisers surrounded the loading dock of the Wow-O Toy factory as Mister Smithers, the janitor, was led away in handcuffs. Only a few yards from the scene was parked a civilian vehicle—a van sporting orange flowers painted on the side of its turquoise and chartreuse chassis. That van had practically been a fixture at every major crime scene in the city, and its unusual paint job made it instantly identifiable as the Mystery Machine, the car belonging to the team of detectives known collectively as "Mystery Inc." Less than an hour before, the team and the van had been swarmed by television reporters and by standers, all demanding to know how the group had solved the case; but now, the crowds were gone, and only a few police officers lingered. The scene was quiet, save for the voice of a disgruntled young woman. "Fred, I can't believe you took credit for my plan again! I'm getting a little tired of that, you know."

The blond man shrugged, trying to come up with an answer, but before he could, the redhead interjected with her opinion. "Some plan!" she sneered, "I was fondled by that creepy ghost for an hour-and-a-half!" 

Daphne's admonition and tone of voice took Fred by surprise. In all the years that he had known her, she had never once complained about getting kidnapped, falling through trap doors or being held prisoner by a criminal in a Halloween costume; why did she choose this particular moment to voice her complaints? He could have said the same thing for Velma as well. Why this particular case? Why now? Or had both girls been suffering in silence all these years, and the stress of this particular case just caused all that resentment to spill forth? "Look, its not our fault you always get kidnapped," Fred began. By the time he realized the stupidity of his comment, it was too late to recant.

"I don't _always_ get kidnapped," Daphne replied, feigning hurt, but radiating disgust. "I can't believe you'd say that!"

Fred Jones struggled to process both girls' comments, but before he could, Velma interjected. 

"You didn't answer my question, Fred, why do you always upstage me?" 

For the first time in his life, the blond man was at a loss for words. _Great,_ he mumbled to himself, _now I've angered both girls._ "I…I…"

"Say something, dammit!" both girls chorused in unison; their use of vulgar language emphasized the gravity of the situation for the blond man.

The skinny man and his dog attempted to intercede, but only exacerbated the situation. Fred, Velma and Daphne listened intently to Shaggy's reasoning, but clearly, a food-based metaphor was not the most appropriate way to diffuse such a volatile situation. The blond and the redhead carefully analyzed the beatnik's comments, trying to decide what to make of them, but the bespectacled girl needed no such time to think. "Thank you for putting things into perspective for me," she sniffled, "I quit!"

She hadn't truly intended to quit; all she desired was recognition for her accomplishments. She had hoped that her friends would pick up on the ploy, but instead, they followed her lead. "I quit!" the blond man announced forcefully. 

After much consideration, the redhead announced her resignation too. "Good riddance!" The three former friends turned their backs to one another, neither one wanting to see the other two again. 

Velma Dinkley thought about the events as she began her long walk back home. _What have I done?_ she wept, _how could I have been so foolish…and selfish? _The issue weighed heavily on her mind, and she knew that she would have to seek help before it overtook her completely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred Jones wandered aimlessly through the streets, torn between wanting to return home, where he could find solace in other activities, and staying out awhile longer to be alone with his thoughts. On any other day, he and the others would have been sitting in their usual booth at the local Malt Shop, laughing happily while discussing their latest case; but tonight, after this case, the blond man found himself alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. He ran various scenarios through his mind, trying to justify and rationalize what had gone wrong and how the break up could have been averted. What if he had admitted that his plan had been flawed instead of denying it so vehemently? What if he hadn't criticized Daphne for being so danger-prone? There were too many "what if's" and not enough answers; but ironically, the biggest "what if" centered not around Daphne, but around her younger cohort, Velma.

Although publicly he flaunted his more than platonic bond with Daphne, privately, he harbored an equally strong bond with the bespectacled girl. Velma was, for all intents and purposes, the redhead's polar opposite—a bookworm rather than a fashion fanatic, reserved and soft spoken rather than effervescent and outgoing, analytical rather than intuitive—but Fred found himself attracted to her just the same. He felt a connection with her mind and her spirit rather than with her physical appearance. Indeed, Velma's skills in logic and analysis perfectly complemented the blond man's keen insight and sharp powers of observation, and it was often their combined efforts that would lead to the solution of a mystery. Over the years, though, the similarities in their intellects led to the development of a contentious spirit between them, each trying to out do the other; and the same qualities that had attracted the blond man to the petite brunette, allowed him to unwittingly overshadow her in the public eye. And like a Cessna caught in a corkscrew nosedive, Fred's actions quickly spiraled out of control and he crashed and burned that evening, taking the rest of Mystery Inc. with him. Fred cursed under his breath. He had actually intended to apologize to Velma, but rather than speaking an apology, he had changed the subject of the conversation. Fred sighed, knowing that he unless he got the chance to apologize to Velma, he would feel guilty for the rest of his life; but now, thanks to his own egocentricity, he would probably never see the younger girl again. 

As he began the long walk home, Fred Jones thought long and hard about his future; essentially, the dissolution of Mystery Inc. meant the end of his childhood. No longer could he spend time hanging out with his friends, travelling around the country and justifying it as his work; he now had to find a "real" job, one that could best utilize his talents and abilities. The blond man mentally ran through his list of options; as a child, he had envisioned himself as a best selling mystery novelist writing stories based on his cases with Mystery Inc. _Why not resurrect that dream_ he thought to himself, _now would be the perfect time to do so—after all, I'm a cultural icon, who wouldn't want to buy a book about me?_ With that thought, he quickened his pace and hurried home. Not even bothering to greet his family, he rushed up the stairs into his bedroom and turned on his computer. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bespectacled girl glanced at the business card in her hand, double checking the address to make sure she had come to the right place for her meeting: 2130 Welch Road—The Institute for Advanced Theoretical Research in Human Psychology. The large, metal numbers on the building confirmed that she had indeed come to the right place--her meeting was in suite 215 of this building. 

Velma felt a tinge of discomfort as she walked through the doors into the building—she couldn't figure out exactly why she was even attending this meeting. All her life, she had viewed herself as a happy, well-adjusted individual, a brilliant young woman with a supportive group of friends and a promising career in the sciences—certainly not the typical candidate for psychological counseling. But ever since the break up of Mystery Inc., she began to have serious doubts about her self worth. In the first few months after the split, she had often found herself overcome by unexplained fits of weeping that interfered with her job. At home, Harold and Marilyn Dinkley tried to get their daughter to talk about her feelings, but Velma refused, often locking herself in her room or spending long hours standing on her balcony, gazing wordlessly at the stars. Concerned about the girl's well being, Velma's supervisor at NASA had recommended that she seek psychological counseling, an idea that her parents strongly supported. 

Velma walked down the hallway, stopping in front of a conference room marked '215.' Once again, she was overcome by her own self doubt, and she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Deciding in the affirmative, she turned the silver handle on the door and entered the room. 

The other members of the therapy group curiously surveyed the newcomer, and Velma regarded them with an equally inquiring eye. The group was a motley crew of societal misfits--a heavy-set, middle aged man with a large pot belly; a woman in her mid to late 40's with stringy gray hair pulled back in a pony tail; a dark skinned man with dreadlocks who looked like Bob Marley, back from the grave. Indeed, Velma's scholarly demeanor and clean-cut appearance set her apart from the other members of the group. _Jinkies, what am I **doing** here,_ she thought to herself, _I don't think I fit in with these people_! But she took a seat in the corner anyway. 

The door opened, and the group's moderator entered. A blonde woman sporting a man's haircut, she looked like she had not too long ago been a participant in this same group. "Welcome, everybody," she announced, her voice radiating a perfunctory cheerfulness, "we are all here to become positive, happy people with positive, happy outlooks on life!" 

Velma rolled her eyes. She felt as though she was the only one in the room who could see right through the therapist's bromide words, and she was probably right. The pathetic state of the other participants—recovering alcoholics, spurned divorcees or former drug addicts—led the young girl to further question why she was even attending this meeting. 

"Now, I want all of you to introduce yourselves, and remember, be positive! Be supportive! Be happy!" Velma listened carefully to the other participants' stories. After each person had spoken, the therapist spouted the same, trite platitude, "Focus on the present and your accomplishments—take pride in what you have done!" Velma considered getting up and leaving, but when her turn came, she dutifully gave her response. 

"My name is Velma Dinkley, and I'm here because I feel like I wasn't getting enough recognition for what I had accomplished."

The therapist smiled a fake, broad smile. "I'm sorry to hear that, Ms. Dinkley." The others in the room grunted their approval of the therapist's comment. "When did you first start experiencing these feelings?" 

"This all started when I was part of a group…" 

The potbellied man cut her off mid-sentence. "What group was that?" 

Velma scowled, disgusted that the man had the audacity to cut her off, but she answered the question any way. "Mystery Inc." No sooner had the words left her lips than she regretted saying them.

The other participants' faces brightened as they recognized the name of the famous group of detectives. "Wow, Fred Jones!" recalled the pony-tailed woman.

"And that giant dog!"

"Oh, remember Daphne? Oh, she was hot!"

__

Oh no, groaned Velma, _what have I started?_ She turned to the therapist, wordlessly expressing a plea for help.

The other participants began immediately began discussing the gang's most famous cases—the Creeper, the Black Knight, the Ghost of Redbeard the Pirate; the group had apparently had found the common bond that united them, and were well on there way to becoming happy, well adjusted people. The young girl once again looked to the therapist for help. "Sorry, I don't recall a 'Thelma,'" the blond woman answered, coldly. 

Velma shut her eyes to hold back here tears. "Fine," she blurted, monotonously. She tried to look brave, but her down-turned lips and tear filled eyes gave her away. "I don't…need to be here…anyhow." Pulling herself out of her chair, she walked towards the door; no one noticed her leaving, and if they did, they certainly didn't care. They were too wrapped up in their discussion about the exploits of the girl's former best friends. Velma dragged herself into the lobby of the building. With a heavy sigh, she sank down on a couch, burying her face in her hands and began weeping softly. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred Jones sat in the office of literary agent Marcia Greenbrae negotiating the terms for the publication of his book. Even though the blond man was one of her younger clients, Marcia treated him with the same professionalism and respect as her older, more seasoned clients—perhaps with even a bit more reverence, as she was proud of him for having accomplished so much at such a young age. "Now, Mister Jones, as your agent, I will handle the accounting and marketing aspects of your book. We have contracted for an initial print run of 1.5 million copies; then, if sales and demand are high enough, we will increase the production run to 4 million copies per year." 

Fred beamed at the woman's comment. _Of course, demand will be high,_ he thought to himself. _Who wouldn't want to know the intimate details about the debonair, intrepid leader of Mystery Inc.? _

"As part of the promotion, you will do personal appearances and signings at bookstores around the country. It is also recommended that you do promotional appearances at media conventions and give talks on the lecture circuit. If you would like a press agent to handle the publicity, I can arrange for that…"

"That won't be necessary," replied Fred, politely declining the offer. During his last few years with Mystery Inc, he had developed a certain genius for self-promotion. "I believe I can handle the publicity myself." 

Marcia Greenbrae grinned broadly in response to Fred's comment. "Now, Mister Jones, if you will simply sign your name on the line acknowledging the terms of this contract, we will be ready." 

The blond man dutifully signed his name on the sheet like a seasoned professional. His career as a writer was off to a terrific start.

"My daughter Sarah just adores you," the woman added, placing a presale copy of the book in front of the blond man, "I was wondering if perhaps you would sign this copy for her--I want to surprise her with it." 

Fred whipped out a pen and signed a personal dedication across the front page of the book: "To Sarah, with best wishes, Fred Jones." 

Marcia Greenbrae beamed. "Oh, she will love this, thank you!" In a closing gesture of professionalism, she reached out and shook the blond man's hand. "Congratulations, Mister Jones, I look forward to representing you." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bespectacled girl sat at her desk at the NASA research facility, dutifully pouring over various sketches and computations relating to her latest project. As much as she enjoyed working for the most prestigious scientific agency in the country, it was still a desk job. A large part of her day was spent calculating formulas, then running them through a computer and analyzing the results; it wasn't nearly as much fun as solving mysteries, but for the first time in her life, she felt that her accomplishments were being recognized. 

Velma had entered as a junior research assistant, but in less than a year, had made her presence known in the scientific community. After only fifteen months on the job, she had earned a promotion to junior engineer on the missile defense project and had already published two articles in leading scientific journals. No one doubted that Velma Dinkley was well on her way to becoming an established physicist. 

"Miss Dinkley?"

The young woman drew herself upward at the sound of the formal address. "Doctor Harrison," she announced, caught off guard by her supervisor's sudden appearance, "is there something I can do for you, sir?" 

"You're already doing enough, Miss Dinkley," came the older doctor's answer. "For one so young, you have shown yourself to be a dedicated scientist and researcher; it is rare that we find someone with those qualities, even at this agency."

Velma beamed with pride at the compliments, but scarcely dared to let it show on her face. "Thank you sir."

"Well, as you may well know, NASA is sponsoring an international conference on the applications of hydro-electric power in current satellite defense systems."

"Yes, sir, I am aware of that conference."

"The conference will be held November at the Sedgewick Hotel." Doctor Harrison paused, before continuing, "we would like you to represent us by presenting your research on the latest advances in hydro-powered missile defense systems."

The senior scientist's announcement incited a rare, open mouthed smile from the young woman. Abandoning her previous impassivity, she breathed, "Me? Jinkies, that would be wonderful." 

"Then I can tell Doctor Caceres to expect you as a panelist?"

"Certainly." 

Velma could hardly contain her shock. _Yess!!_, she cheered, silently. Finally, she was getting the recognition she knew that she deserved. Little could she have imagined that not only her career would experience a positive change at that conference. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Outside the entrance to the Sedgewick Hotel, hundreds of eager teenagers and young adults awaited the start of the Annual International Fan Con-a-Thon. Toting autograph books, fan magazines and glossy photos, each fan eagerly hoped for a chance to meet their favorite celebrity in person. Amidst the throng of humanity, a young woman slowly made her way to the revolving doors. She too was attending a conference, but in place of celebrity magazines, she carried copies of _Popular Science_, the centerfolds of which featured stars of the celestial kind. Instead of an autograph book, she carried a briefcase and binder, loaded with glossy, multi-colored pie charts and numerical calculations. The woman had a short, neatly kept hairdo and a scholarly appearance, emphasized by the pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses she wore. Her professional dress and her age set her apart from the throng of rabid fan convention attendees, yet, she still found herself stopped at the main door by a man in a Sedgewick bellhop's uniform. 

"I'm sorry, Miss, but you'll have to wait outside to get into the Fan Con-a-Thon."

"Actually, I'm not here for that. I'm Velma Dinkley, I'm attending the NASA conference on hydro-electric defense systems." The young woman reached into her briefcase and produced a letter attesting to her status as a NASA convention invitee. 

"Of course, I should have known; please, come this way—it will be easier to get around the crowds." The bellhop escorted the young woman into the lobby through a side entrance, making sure she had safely entered before returning to his post outside the revolving doors. 

Entering the lobby, she pondered the bellhop's comment. _What did he mean by 'I should have known'? _she wondered. _Did he mean that he should have recognized me as Velma Dinkley, former member of Mystery Inc.? Or did he mean that based on my dress, demeanor and appearance, he should have known that I am not here to attend something as silly as a celebrity public appearance?_ For a moment, she tried to imagine herself making an appearance at such a convention. She tried to envision hoards of fans asking her for her autograph or yearning to discuss her latest case, just as all the young fans had once done to her cohorts Fred Jones, Shaggy Rogers, and, of course, Scooby-Doo. _Oh, who am I kidding_, she reasoned, _no one would want to talk to me like that. _

The voice of reason spoke to her from the back of her mind. _Remember what the therapist said, Velma. 'Focus on the present and your accomplishments—take pride in what you have done.'_ Velma Dinkley certainly had no shortage of accomplishments in which to take pride. She had already published two articles in _Popular Science_ and _The Journal of Physics_, and was the youngest project engineer on the hydro powered missile defense project; but all those professional accolades could not make up for what she really wanted--recognition from the public for her work as a detective_. Snap out of it, Dinkley_, she chided herself, _you have a presentation to make, and you cannot afford to be sidetracked by your emotions._ Putting the foolish thoughts out of her mind, she walked into the conference room where a group of panelists and conference attendees were already gathered. 

"Miss Dinkley, I'm Dr. Roger Caceres, the organizer and moderator of this conference."

The young woman extended her hand in a friendly greeting. 

"We've already set aside a spot for you at the table. You can set up your presentation materials in that corner, and take a seat."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Inside the Grand Ballroom of the Sedgewick hotel, Fred Jones methodically set up his booth and presentation materials and awaited the start of the convention. Fred had gone to painstaking lengths to ensure that all the accoutrements matched his color preferences. The teal blue backdrop and table skirt matched the color of his trousers, while the white banner with orange lettering matched his sweater and ascot. In the center of the banner was a full color image of the blond man, above which was written his name and title—"Celebrity Detective." On each side of the booth stood racks displaying copies of the blond man's book, appropriately entitled Fred on Fred: The Many Faces of Me. Fred stepped back and admired his masterful organization. _Ah, yes, bring them on,_ he thought to himself. _Fred Jones is ready for his adoring public._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the last rings of applause faded, the moderator introduced announced the next speaker at the NASA conference. "In spite of her youth, our next speaker has already established herself as an up and coming member of the scientific community."

In spite of her outwardly confident appearance, Velma had trouble containing her internal nervousness. She had spoken in public many times before, but never at an event with the magnitude of this conference. Her supervisor had confided his trust in her, and she knew that her future reception at her job could well depend on her performance at this conference. _There is nothing to be nervous about,_ she reassured herself, _you were chosen to make this presentation based on your accomplishments and your abilities; Doctor Harrison wouldn't have selected you if he didn't think you were capable of handling this project._

Doctor Caceres continued, "She is the youngest design engineer on the hydro-powered missile defense project, but many of you may recognize her as one of the former members of the detective agency Mystery Inc..." 

__

Oh no, not that. Please don't mention Mystery Inc.—not here, and not now! She certainly didn't need the specter of her former lifestyle haunting her on the biggest day of her new life.

"…please welcome Miss Velma Dinkley." 

__

It's do or die, Dinkley, she told herself, _knock 'em dead. _

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A huge round of applause and cheers filled the room as Velma concluded her presentation; the approving expressions on the attendees' faces confirmed that she had done a more than satisfactory job on her presentation. _I did it! _she thought, as she listened to the thunderous applause, _I came across as professional and well-spoken—how silly of me to have doubted myself like I did. _

"Thank you, Miss Dinkley," pronounced the moderator, at which signal, the young woman returned to her seat to listen to the other panelists' presentations. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"…and, through my inscrutable powers of observation, I discovered that the Black Knight was no supernatural entity, but rather, a disgruntled adult in a costume." Fred proudly manipulated a knight's helmet, turning it so that the face plate faced him and the back was visible to the audience, an audience that consisted of three preteen boys. The oldest of the trio, possibly the leader, wore an orthodontic mouthpiece that markedly impeded his speech. The boys exchanged dubious glances with each other, not certain what to make of the blond man's presentation. "Yes," Fred continued, "my keen, detective's powers of observation led me to notice…a zipper." He pointed to the underside of the knight's chain mail. 

"So…does any one have any questions?" the blond man asked, confidently. 

The boy with the orthodontic mouthpiece raised his hand. "Yeah," he sneered, "why do you suck?" 

The comment caught the blond man completely off guard, and although he tried to mask his shock with a presumptuous smile, the change in his posture belied him, and the boys knew that they had successfully breached Fred's confidence. "Score!" the other two boys snickered under their breaths, exchanging high-fives and chuckling at their cohort's audacity, but they weren't finished just yet. Like sharks moving in on an injured sea lion, the two boys followed their cohort's lead, picking up where he had left off. They enjoyed harassing the blond man; it was a much more amusing past time than making toll free crank calls from the lobby pay phones. "Who dyes your hair?" asked a second boy. 

Fred bit his lower lip, torn between maintaining a professional demeanor and wanting to rip out the preteens' throats one-by-one. For a moment, he imagined himself doing just that, and the harshness of the image brought with it a fleeting sense of calm, but the boys were not finished yet; they were going for the kill. "You like solving mysteries, huh?" the third boy sneered, "well, solve this!" Putting a hand to his groin region, the boy made an obscene gesture at the blond man, eliciting even more snickers from the two other boys. 

Fred sighed in defeat. He knew that his status as a heartthrob celebrity would soon end, but he never expected to exit on such an undignified note. _You can do this, Fred,_ he mentally reassured himself, _you can handle this_. He pulled himself up to a confident position, then asserted, "Well, then, if nobody has any questions, I will be leaving for the moment." He hung a sign over the booth announcing that he would be "back in fifteen minutes," then headed swiftly for the door. Satisfied that they had sufficiently tormented the blond man, the boys moved on to another booth, poised to wreck their havoc on yet another hapless celebrity has been. 

On his way to the door, the blond man recalled what his uncle Eddie used to tell him every time the young Fred got into a fight with the neighborhood bully: "Walk out with your head held high--make them feel as if their remarks had no effect on your spirits_._" _Easier said than done_, Fred sighed, as he walked through the revolving doors and headed to a coffee shop across the street from the hotel.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred walked aimlessly through the hotel lobby, sipping his latte and stalling for time. He had no desire to go back to the ballroom, not after what had transpired with those preteen smart alecks. The incident only confirmed what Fred had secretly begun to suspect--that his popularity was waning and that soon, he would be little more than another celebrity whose time in the spotlight was but a distant memory in the collective spirit of the public. In the back of his mind though, he knew that he shouldn't have found that fact so surprising. Preteens were notoriously fickle in their allegiances—they liked whatever was popular at the moment, then, as soon as something better came along, they'd abandon their previously ardent devotions, and the cycle would start all over again. And unfortunately, right now, Fred Jones found himself on the outward bound end of that cycle. Lost in his thoughts, and paying almost no attention to his surroundings, he failed to see the petite brunette heading straight for him in the opposite direction. He bumped into her, head on, knocking her off balance and sending her stumbling backwards. 

The force of the collision jostled the coffee cup in Fred's hand, spilling the hot liquid onto his white sweater. "Damn it!" he blurted, both out of contempt for the woman and for his own clumsiness; then he realized that cursing in public was probably not the best thing for his status as a fading celebrity. Surreptitiously, he glanced around the lobby, making sure that no one had heard his blasphemous declaration. Satisfied that it had gone unheard, he turned to face the woman who had provoked his ire in the first place. 

"I…I'm sorry sir," the young woman stuttered, her voice clearly trembling, "I can pay for the cleaning charges if you would like." 

Fred glanced down to survey the damage to his sweater. "Don't worry about it," he replied, shaking his head; he had more important matters on his mind than a soiled garment. 

"No, please," the young woman insisted. "It's my fault—I wasn't looking where I was going." 

"I said 'don't worry about it,'" repeated Fred, this time with a little more exigency; the last thing he needed was an obligation to an unknown woman. He turned to walk away, when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the woman; she looked vaguely familiar, but Fred could not place where he had seen her before. _Probably at one of my past appearances_, he surmised, but there was something logically inconsistent with that argument. At every public appearance on his book tour, he had seen hundreds—maybe thousands—of young women, there was no reason why this one should stand out from all the others, especially since she was so ordinary looking. He repositioned himself to get a better look at the woman's face, and gasped when he did. It was the face of someone he thought he would never see again. 

The young woman in question wore a long, red, knit skirt and a light-orange blouse, accented by a matching red blazer. Her thick, black framed eye glasses and short, neatly kept hairstyle emphasized her scholarly appearance. The blond man could scarcely believe his own eyes. Although only eighteen months had passed since he had last seen her, she looked so much more mature when dressed in career clothing. "Velma," he breathed, incredulously, "is that you?"

Taken aback by the stranger's utterance of her name, the younger woman backed away, until she was in a more centralized area of the lobby; if the man meant her any harm, she would certainly be much safer in a crowded area. Yet a voice in the back of her mind chastised her for her decision. ****_Why are you running away? He recognized you—isn't that what you wanted_**?** 

I have no idea who he is! Velma mentally countered, _how do I know he isn't going to hurt me? _

****Talk to him. Respond. Be assertive**!** Velma eventually overrode her own self-doubt and gave in to her conscience. Assuming a stauncher, more confident stance than she had held just seconds earlier, she responded to the blond man's inquiry. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

The words dealt yet another blow to Fred's self confidence, but for some reason, these words hurt him even more than those uttered by the crowd of preteen boys earlier in the day. He began to wonder if perhaps he had not mistaken someone else for the petite, scholarly brunette with whom he was once friends. It was possible, but this woman bore a such a striking resemblance to Velma Dinkley that Fred felt inclined to dismiss all his doubts_. Perhaps now is the time to mend old wounds_, he thought, _approach her again, and even if you are mistaken, what have you got to lose? _Listening to his own conscience, he cautiously approached the young woman, extending his hand in a friendly gesture. "It's me, Fred."

The familiar sounding name brought forth a rush of memories in the young woman's mind. "Frederick?" she asked, tentatively, as if confirming the man's identity. 

The blond man offered a warm smile, nodding in response, but Velma did not immediately rush forward to greet her long lost friend, as he had expected. Instead, she stood silently, a distrusting expression on her face; she was looking directly at the very man whose treatment of her had provoked the acrimonious break up of Mystery Inc. eighteen months earlier. Again, the doubts began to plague her mind. _****What are you waiting for? Talk to him!****_

**I don't want to—this is the same man who hurt me and used me. I have no desire to reestablish contact with him.

****Time heals all wounds, Dinkley**. **Give him a chance, maybe he has forgiven you, or at least, forgotten the incident.****

The bespectacled girl once again allowed her conscience to speak for her. "What are you doing here?" It was not the most intelligent thing to come from Velma Dinkley's mouth, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. 

"I'm making a personal appearance at the annual Celebrity Fan Con-a-Thon," Fred replied, "paying my dues to my overly adoring public." 

Velma rolled her eyes; the blond man's comment only confirmed what she had initially suspected—that Fred Jones was still the biggest attention hogging ego-maniac on the planet, and that the time away from Mystery Inc. had done little or nothing to change his personality. 

"What about you? What are you doing here?" 

"I'm attending a conference on the possible applications of hydro-electric power as a potential substitute for more volatile nuclear based forms now employed in our defense systems." 

"Oh," Fred replied. _Typical Velma,_ he thought. _Still speaking in words that only a person with a triple doctorate could ever understand. No wonder no one ever liked her; when is she going to learn? _ In spite of his own negative thoughts, he truly wanted to reestablish contact with the bespectacled girl. "Uh, what time do you get off from the conference?" he blurted, suddenly.

"The last panel concludes at approximately 4:30," Velma replied, "barring long questions from the attendees." _Why do you care, Fred Jones?_

"Well, I figured that since we're both attending conferences here, and we both get out at the same time, maybe you'd want to, uh, have dinner afterwards? Maybe some coffee and dessert, even? We have a lot of things to talk about…"

Velma was skeptical of the offer. _Nice try, Jones, but you can't buy me off that easily. It'll take a lot more than just a fancy dinner to make up for what you did to me back then._ "Yes, I suppose—that would be, er, nice." 

"Great, I'll meet you outside the main ballroom at five o'clock." 

Fred gave the younger woman a 'thumbs up' signal before heading back to the main ballroom and the fan convention. _I hope she's ready to make up,_ Fred thought silently, _I've kind of missed her company; it'll be nice to talk to her again_. 

__

Jinkies, Velma thought, _I hope I'm ready to face Fred again;_ _it's not going to be easy._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At five o'clock, Velma Dinkley emerged in the lobby and began looking around for the blond man. In the half hour after the conference ended, she had gone back upstairs to her room to freshen herself a bit. She brushed her hair and smoothed her blouse, then walked back into the lobby. As he had promised, the blond man was waiting outside the large ballroom. "Hello, Velma," he spoke, carefully surveying her outfit, "you look really nice." _She certainly looks better in that outfit than in her usual one,_ he thought to himself, _even if she isn't wearing make up. I wonder why she didn't dress like that more often? She really is a pretty girl._

Velma smiled in response. "Thank you, Freddie. You look good yourself." _He still wears that silly ascot,_ she mumbled to herself. _When is he going to figure out that a white sweater, blue trousers and orange neckwear will never be fashionable? _"So, where exactly are we going?" 

"I made us a reservation at the Larkspur Gardens Restaurant," Fred answered, "it's just on the other side of town, so we'll have to take a cab to get there." Like a gentleman, Fred held the door open for the younger girl. "After you, Velma," he said, gesturing for her to get in first. Velma carefully smoothed her skirt as she slid into the back seat; Fred followed a few moments later. When the cab pulled up to the Larkspur Gardens restaurant, this time, Fred got out first, then took Velma's hand as he helped her out of the taxi. He walked with her, hand-in-hand, up to the maitre d's podium. "Jones," he declared, matter-of-factly, "I have a reservation for 5:45." The maitre d' glanced at the list, before picking up two menus. "Right this way, sir." 

As they walked to the table, Velma surveyed the patrons—well heeled men and women sipping wine and savoring the food on their plates. "I'm impressed, Freddie," the bespectacled girl commented, softly. "For once, you didn't choose a counter service hamburger joint."

The blond man shook his head. "Ordinarily, I would," he replied, "but this is much too special of an occasion to eat at a Malt Shop—and you're such a special person that you deserve much better."

Velma felt her face grow red. _Did he really say that? _she wondered to herself,_ Does Fred Jones really care that much about me?_ "Awww, jinkies," she replied, that's so sweet of you, Freddie." 

The maitre d' placed the menus on the table, then returned to his post. Velma carefully smoothed her skirt and took her seat. 

Fred picked up the menu and gave it a cursory glance. "We'd better get started," he commented, "we've got a lot of catching up to do."

Velma favored Fred with her usual, closed mouth, bemused grin. "You first, Freddie." 

A long, awkward silence reigned between them; they had so much to talk about, yet neither one knew exactly where to begin. Velma stared for a long time at the blond man. _Say it, Jones,_ she admonished silently, _you know what you have to say--two little words—is it that hard?_

Fred returned an equally penetrating, pensive glance. _Where am I supposed to begin?_ he wondered, _After all this time, a simple 'I'm sorry' doesn't seem like it would cut it._ _Well, no sense putting it off, I might as well start now._ Taking a deep breath, he prepared to speak, but the words he wanted just didn't leave his mouth. "So, Velma, uh, have you seen Shaggy or Daphne recently?"

"Daphne, no, but I _did_ see Shaggy recently."

Her statement seemed to pique the blond man's curiosity. "Oh, what's he up to these days?"

"He and Scooby are living out of the van in some hippie commune out in California. I ran into them on accident when I was taking a weekend break one time. They both seemed really happy." 

A thin smile played across Fred's lips as an image formed in his mind. He could fully picture the man and his dog living that kind of a carefree lifestyle; it seemed to suit them. 

"What about you, Freddie?" Velma continued, "Have you spoken to Daphne?"

Fred's shoulders slumped a bit, and Velma could tell from the change in carriage that it hurt him to think about his former girlfriend "No," he answered, softly, a tinge of sadness detectable in his voice, "not since...that night..." He stumbled over his words, then trailed off completely. 

Fred bowed his head in an attempt to avert Velma's gaze and to hide the tears that suddenly began to flow. Ordinarily, the blond man was extremely stoic, able to hide his emotions behind a long perfected mask of impassivity; but tonight was different. There were just too many thoughts and feelings involved, and Fred recognized instinctively that he just could not suppress them all at once. He spoke softly so as not to attract the attention of the neighboring diners. "Oh, God, Velma," he sniffled, "I am so sorry. I should never have acted the way I did."

Velma watched the blond man's reaction. She could tell from his body language that he was sincere, but she was not yet ready to give in. "Freddie," she asked, reaching across the table and gently taking his hands, "_why_ did you act the way you did that night?"

It hurt to think about that fateful night, but Fred knew that if he wanted to move on, he had to revisit it and face his past. For eighteen months, it had haunted him; now was his chance to exorcise that demon for good. Taking a deep breath, he began, slowly, "Because...because I was jealous of you."

The revelation took the younger girl by surprise. The whole time that she had known Fred, she had never once detected any jealousy on his part; still, she felt she had to know the reasons behind his behavior at that toy factory, so she listened intently. 

"I guess in order to justify my behavior that night, I'd need to go back to when we were teenagers."

"I'm in no hurry, Freddie," Velma intoned, flatly. "I've wrestled with this issue for eighteen months now. What's a few more hours?" 

Fred took a deep breath and began his explanation. "Those first few cases we solved were not much different from those we had tackled as children—we'd catch the 'ghost,' the police would take over and we would go home. But everything changed when we broke up that boat hijacking ring at Rocky Point."

"I remember," Velma interjected.

"Well, anyway, there happened to be a reporter from the local paper on the site that night. He interviewed us, took put picture and the story made headlines the next day. That was where it all started." The blond man paused, then looked questioningly at his partner. "You remember that picture, don't you?"

Velma nodded sadly. Try as she did, she could not forget about that picture. It seemed innocent enough—Scooby sat in the front; directly behind him stood Fred, flanked on either side by Shaggy and Daphne. And in the back, almost hidden from view, was a tiny, fifteen-year-old girl with thick glasses and a pixie haircut. From that moment on, anytime someone mentioned the words "Mystery Inc.", that picture would come to mind. 

"Just based on that one picture," Fred continued, "everyone automatically assumed that I was the leader because I had stood in the front. And if I was the leader, everyone assumed that _I _was the one who came up with all the plans and that _I _was the one who actually solved the case. They had projected an image onto me; it wasn't long before I began to believe that image and tried to make it into a reality." 

"I can't blame the public for looking to you, Freddie," Velma began, "after all, if you had a choice, who would you rather emulate and admire—a tall, handsome blond or a short, freckle faced girl with coke bottle glasses? It was only natural that the public picked you over me. "

"Maybe," the blond man replied, "but in trying to make that image into a reality, I lost sight of something that was very important..." He trailed off abruptly, choking on his words. He ducked his head and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, Velma, I'm sorry," he sniffled, softly. "I was jealous of you, that's all. I was jealous because you had everything that I needed..." He quickly corrected himself. "Er, wanted, in order to become who the public thought I was. But no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't do it because I not have your acumen. So I compensated in the only way that I could—by taking credit for everything that you did. And it wasn't long before it spiraled out of control." 

Velma carefully processed and analyzed Fred's words, but once again, her mind was plagued with doubts. 

_He said he was sorry; he even offered an explanation. Forgive him._

****

**He just admitted publicly what you had known all along—that he is an ego maniac with no feelings for anyone other than himself.

But he's mature enough to admit his faults. That shows that he has grown from the man he had been that night. 

****

**That 'apology' was nothing more than a rationalization, and his lengthy story only proved that he still loves to talk about himself. He hasn't changed a single bit. 

Fred kept a close watch on her expression. Having known her for all those years, he could practically read her like a book. His shoulders slumped as he made his conclusion. "You think I'm rationalizing, don't you, Velma?" 

The bespectacled girl shook her head. "No," she spoke, softly, "I don't. I fully understand where you are coming from. And if it makes you feel any better, Fred, I have long admired you for the same reasons that you admire me." With a chuckle, she added, "There were even a few times that I wished that I could be you."

Fred's lips pursed into a smile. "I...can't see you as a blonde," he commented, "and _definitely_ not as a man." The comment brought another chuckle from Velma, this time slightly louder. 

"Hey, we make a pretty good team, don't we Velmster?" 

Velma nodded. 

"And I promise, I'll always be there to watch your back." 

"Me too." 

The pair exchanged a long overdue handshake and a smile. Neither one spoke; no words were needed. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next day, Fred Jones stood half-heartedly at his booth, glancing surreptitiously at his watch every few minutes. It was the second day of the Fan Con-a-thon, and other than his accidental reunion with the bespectacled girl the day earlier, nothing of note had occurred for the duration of the convention, and, for the first time since entering the lecture circuit, the blond man was bored. Six months ago, he had been the hottest item at every fan convention, attracting thousands of visitors and selling copies of his memoirs practically faster than he could obtain them from the publisher; now he could barely bribe someone to take a copy. At those past appearances, time had been his worst enemy, going by faster than he could sign autographs and answer questions; this time, Fred had _too much_ time on his hands, and nothing better to do other than to recall the days of yore when throngs of screaming, squealing fans would overrun his booth, hoping for the chance to speak with him or to get his autograph. 

"Hey, Freddie."

The voice caught him off guard, but he eagerly welcomed its owner. "Oh, hey Velma, I wasn't expecting you." 

Velma offered Fred a bemused smile. "I thought you might like some company; you looked rather lonely standing up here by yourself."

Fred proffered a forced smile. Other than the three juvenile troublemakers from the day before, no one had stopped by his booth since the convention had started; and while the blond man hated to admit it, he knew that his time in the spotlight was rapidly coming to an end. "Um, sure. Thanks, Velma."

The bespectacled girl chuckled. "I had no trouble finding your booth," she commented, "it was the only one that didn't have a huge crowd gathered around it." 

"Ouch." The comment stung, but Fred recognized it as little more than one of Velma's "friendly" quips. In her time with Mystery Inc., the younger girl had been well known for her sharp wit and quick remarks, and Fred could see that in spite of the emotional turmoil and stress of the past eighteen months, she had not lost that trait. "That was low, Velma," he replied, feigning hurt. 

Velma playfully jabbed the older man in the ribs. "You had it coming to you, Freddie," she commented, settling down in a lawn chair to peruse the various articles and handouts from her conference, "you earned it." 

Fred laughed in response to the younger girl's comment; her quick wit was part of what he had missed the most about her company. He stole a quick glance at the younger girl, and smiled happily. _I will never hurt you again, Velma_, _I promise,_ he swore to himself as he drifted off into a placid reverie about his times with Mystery Inc. and Velma Dinkley.

An all too familiar snickering snapped Fred from his dreamy state, and he immediately recognized the asinine laughter as belonging to the trio of preteen boys who had harassed him the day before. Expecting another verbal onslaught from the trio, the blond man snapped quickly to attention, ready to defend himself from the boys imminent revile; but this time, the boys didn't stop; they walked right past the booth and eventually disappeared into the throng of attendees. Fred heaved an audible sigh of relief, grateful that the boys had passed by without incident; at least he wouldn't have to endure being humiliated in front of Velma. Settling back in the folding chair, he picked up a copy of his book and began perusing through it, but the recollection of the boys' strange behavior kept gnawing at his mind. Just the day before, these same three boys had made clear their dislike for Fred Jones; if they disliked him so much, what on earth were they doing back at his booth? Something was suspicious about their behavior, but Fred couldn't discern exactly what it was. Perhaps he would not have liked it if he could, for at that very moment, the said trio stood less than a hundred yards away, carefully plotting their next assault on the blond man. Spying Velma, the oldest of the trio jabbed his cohorts in the ribs; here lay the opportunity they had been waiting for. 

The leader strode confidently up to Fred's booth. "Hey loser," he jeered in a mock greeting, "what ever happened to that sexy redhead you used to hang out with?"

Before Fred could respond, one of the boys provided an answer for him. "I bet she dumped him for someone who has half a brain." 

"Well, looks like he found a replacement," commented the third, gesturing at Velma. 

"Hardly a worthy 'replacement.' What a geek!" The three boys snickered loudly in agreement. 

Velma felt her confidence level drop a few notches. Although she readily acknowledged her plain, scholarly appearance, she had hoped that her professional accomplishments would overshadow that element of her personality and show the world that there was more to Velma Dinkley than just her brain. Velma forced a smile and faked a chuckle. _They're only children, _she reassured herself, _they know nothing about your professional accomplishments; they're just teasing you. _But no amount of reassurance could prepare her for the insult she was about to hear. 

"Oh, get serious, guys," the brace-faced leader mock admonished, "she doesn't want a loser a like this guy…she wants that sexy redhead, Daphne!" 

"Score!" the younger two boys sneered, as they congratulated their leader with high fives.

Velma would have felt more dignified had someone hit her in the face with a tomato. Of all the stereotypes and preconceptions surrounding her, that one hurt the most, because it was the one to which there wasn't a single grain of truth; unfortunately, it was also the one that refused to die. Visibly disturbed, and more than slightly humiliated, she ducked behind the display racks filled with unsold copies of Fred's memoirs.

Her retreat only invited more taunting from the boys. "Aww, look," one of the boys sneered, "she's scared. Hey geekoid, you had a choice—how come you always shared a room with Daphne and never with that skinny guy and his dog?" 

"A room? How about they shared a _bed?"_

Velma clenched her fists as she listened to the remarks, torn between fighting back and remaining silent. _It's better to keep your mouth shut,_ she concluded_. Arguing would only suggest that there is truth to what they are saying_. She quickly found, though, that turning her conclusion into action was much easier said than done. 

"Tell me, is that babe Daphne as hot in person as she is on T.V.?" Each successive comment grew louder, and more mean-spirited than the last. Velma carefully scrutinized their behavior; their antics weren't those of typical preteen boys who simply wanted to be the center of attention, these three seemed to have a darker motive of publicly slandering and humiliating someone for the sheer fun of it. Whatever their purpose, though, they were certainly succeeding. Their behavior was beginning to turn heads, and some of the more curious attendees had begun to venture over towards Fred's booth to witness the spectacle first hand. 

"So, four-eyes, have you always been a 'chick,' or is this a recent thing?" Amidst the chaos, Fred managed to catch a glimpse of the younger girl. Although Velma had always been known as a strong, resolute woman who rarely showed her fear, Fred could see that the boys' taunts were slowly eating away at her spirit. Velma drew back as far as the partition would allow, stumbling into the display rack and knocking it askew. Several copies of Fred's memoirs rained down onto her, but she could have cared less. In the middle of the mess, she curled up into a ball, as though to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Lifting her head briefly, she made eye contact with the blond man, her dark brown eyes pleading wordlessly with him for help.

Fred stood for a moment, not knowing quite what to do. Clenching his fists, he shut his eyes and mentally screamed in frustration. Of all the situations he had faced that necessiated an expedient plan, this one was perhaps the most crucial; and of all times, he was at a loss to come up with one. If he didn't act now, Velma would be hurt yet again, it would once again be his fault and his hard earned reconciliation with the younger girl would be all for naught. _You can't let this happen_, his conscience reprimanded, y_ou'll lose her again if you don't stop this right now!_

Fred racked his brain, desperately trying to come up with a plan, but to no avail. _I'm sorry, Velma,_ he confessed to himself, as he realized his failure, _you were always the one who could come up with those plans, not me. I could sure use your help now._

"All right, break it up!" 

The authoritative sound of an older man's voice rousted the blond man from his depressing self-recrimination. As Fred looked up, he noticed two uniformed security guards restraining the boys by the backs of their jackets. "Let's go you three," the older guard ordered, "move it!!"

The boys squirmed in the guards' grips. "Aww, what did we do?" one of them whined.

"You're causing a public nuisance," the second guard replied, "and making remarks that could be interpreted as slanderous to a person's character." 

"Oh, come on," the leader pleaded, "it was just a joke." but the guard wasn't buying it. 

"Verbal harassment and willful defamation of a person's character is hardly a joking matter; it is grounds for misdemeanor criminal charges. Now you three are going to come with us to the office while we notify your parents; then, all of us are going to have a long talk about proper conduct in public." 

Fred watched as the guards escorted the boys out of the hotel ballroom. Awash in self satisfaction, he smiled confidently to himself as he thought,_ That's the last we'll see of those meddling kids_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Fred surveyed the damage to the booth. Pushing aside the decorative skirt and climbing over a pile of books, he slowly made his way towards the trembling orange clad ball curled up in the corner. "Velma," he asked, his voice just barely audible, "are you alright?" 

Slowly, the young woman emerged from hiding, her eyes still red from crying. Fred bent over to help her back to her feet, then offered her a tissue to dry her eyes. 

Velma gradually lifted her head and made eye contact with Fred. Even through her tear stained glasses, she could see the sincerity in the older man's clear blue eyes. The blond man smiled warmly at her, acknowledging her courage. Gradually, the bespectacled girl's lips turned upward, slowly forming into a smile. "Thank you, Freddie," she whispered, contently. "Thank you very much."

* * * * * * * * * * * * **

One hour later, a sizable crowd was still gathered around the booth, everyone discussing the events of moments earlier. Taking advantage of the scene, Fred resumed his position under the banner; he tapped lightly on the table-top microphone, making sure that it would project his voice to his satisfaction. "Uh, ladies and gentlemen," he began somewhat tentatively. 

At the sound of the address, the crowd fell silent.

"Well, first of all, I wish to apologize for the ruckus that just took place, and let me say that I will gladly sign autographs later; but first, I would like to introduce a very special guest to you. She is someone whom I haven't seen in almost two years, and certainly almost never expected to see again. In the last few hours, this person showed more courage than I had ever seen her show in all those years that we had spent chasing down criminals." He paused for a moment before beginning his next sentence. "Ladies and Gentlemen, my former cohort from Mystery Inc., Ms. Velma Dinkley." 

The mention of the girl's name brought a rousing cheer from the crowd, the sound of which caused the younger girl to momentarily freeze in her tracks. Slightly taken aback, she glanced briefly at the blond man, as though seeking his advice for how to react. 

"Go on," Fred whispered, waving his hands in a forward motion. 

Cautiously, Velma stepped forward to face the crowd, feeling even more nervous than she had when she had presented at her own conference. It was one thing to address a group of her fellow scientists; it was another thing entirely to address a group of people attending a fan convention. She paused to collect her thoughts, but before she had a chance to speak, a woman with a press badge pushed her way through the crowd. "Miss Dinkley," the woman asked, "tell me, what was it like working with Fred Jones?"

Unaccustomed to being in the spotlight, Velma was once again at a loss for words. She glanced briefly at Fred for his advice, but the blond man only smiled in response. She was on her own. Taking a deep breath, Velma began "Uh, let's just say that Fred and I...well…we didn't always get along." That answer seemed to satisfy the crowd and even elicited a grin from Fred. 

Moments later, another figure moved to the front of the crowd. This one was significantly smaller than the earlier one, and unlike the earlier one, the crowd parted voluntarily to allow this figure to come forth. As the figure approached, Velma could see that it was a little girl, not much older than seven or eight years of age. She held a tiny note pad in her hand, and stepped nervously forward, trembling slightly in the presence of Fred, Velma and the older attendees. 

Fred moved towards her, posed to sign his autograph, but was taken incredibly aback when the little girl offered her the note pad to Velma instead. His shock quickly dissipated though, and he took a few steps back to watch the scene in silence, smiling contently. For once, he was content to let Velma have the spotlight. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Velma stood on her balcony that evening, gazing at the stars as she had done so many times before. The autumn constellations were just beginning to drop below the horizon, soon to be replaced by the winter ones. As a scientist, Velma could not publicly admit that a person's destiny could be controlled by the position of the stars; but in her heart, she wondered if perhaps there was not some scientific basis for that superstition. The stars had aligned in a certain position, had they not, and she had been reunited with Fred; perhaps, she thought, in another few months, they would realign once again to reunite her with the rest of her friends. 

CREDITS/ WORKS CITED: 

GUNN, James. Screenplay: "Scooby-Doo." 2002, Warner Brothers Pictures. All rights retained by the original copyright holders. 

Motion Picture: "Scooby-Doo" 2002. VHS/DVD, dir. Raja Gosnell. Warner Brothers Pictures. All Rights Reserved. 


End file.
